Wolf Dreams
by Woman-of-Winterfell
Summary: Jon's dreams kept getting worse.


He loved the hunt, the thrill of following her scent deep into the godswood. His blood pulsed for her, for her fight. There was no other like her, even when his other sister still lived she was nothing like her. She commanded, overpowered, and devoured.

Yet she would always bend to him in the end.

Deeper and deeper he ran into the trees, his desire for her growing with each footfall. Her scent drew him to her, pushed him to go faster. When he found her, he pounced. He grabbed at her throat and pulled her down with him.

She fought him, but it was all for show. Night after night they played this game, the hunt, and the capture; and she wanted the fight as much as he did.

He took her on the forest floor, and in the dark of that moonless night she filled his senses. Her scent, the feel of her, the sound of her pants and growls.

She was the wolf queen, and he was her master.

Jon awoke bathed in a cold sweat, a silent scream on his lips.

He threw off his furs, sending the soiled bedding across the room, and rose from his bed to wash himself. He wanted to clean away the evidence of his sweat and desire, to wash away his guilt; and yet even the night-chilled water was not enough.

He could still feel the wolf in his mind.

But the dreams were different, now. He could have withstood the bombardment of his memories, had they remained simple wolf dreams; and yet they never did. In the waking hours, the images still came, but reformed; the fiery she-wolf on the night replaced with her human counterpart.

Jon threw the bowl to the stone floor in a fit of anger, memories and dreams still clouding his mind. He decided to stroke the fire instead, watching it as the flames roared and grew to blazing flames, their heat brushing his skin. He resolved to not sleep again that night, prayed to the gods, old and new, he wouldn't.

What he hated the most was the throbbing of not only his body, but also of his heart. The joy, contentment, love, and _lust_ he felt when his thoughts went to his sister who was now a woman.

_Not sister, _he told himself.

He threw another log into the fire with all his strength, cursing that deep part of himself for being so weak; watching as the coals and sparks flew into the air.

The fact she was his cousin by blood did not change the memories of her being a sister, Jon had told himself countless times. It did not change that as a babe her tears would stop when he held her, that her first word was his name, that he had been there for her first step, for her first prank on Sansa, that when she became sick all she wanted was for him to be at her side.

Yet things were different now. They had been children, siblings, when they left Winterfell. Now they were adults, hardened by the war and winter, and almost strangers to one another. When he looked upon Arya he did not see a young girl with mischievous eyes, wearing a fiery smile, and a dirt stained dress. Now his eyes went to the toned muscles that were beneath her tunic, to her beautiful gray eyes that shone like winter. Cold, hard, and dangerous.

It should have saddened him, to see Arya turned into this harsh woman, this woman of ice and fiery revenge; and yet sadness was the last thing he felt when he was in her presence.

Jon leaned back in his chair, looking up at the wood beams that held the ceiling above him, and sighed.

He felt like he had been doing a lot of that since these particular wolf dreams had started. Each sigh was an attempt to release the worry that filled him, but sighs did not change this fate. His feelings would remain the same, and his worry; not to mention the fact that Arya could very possibly be having the same wolf dreams as well.

He comforted himself remembering that not all sleep lead to wolf dreams, and that it was possible that Arya had never been within Nymeria when his dreams occurred. She certainly wasn't acting any differently towards him, showing no hint that she'd been dreaming about him as he so often dreamt of her.

Jon was sure that as long as she didn't know, he could keep it together. She would never have to know, and he could go on pretending that all he saw when he looked at her was his little sister.

He was Targaryen and Stark, but the ice in him almost always won out over the fire and it would again here as well.

Jon closed his eyes, relishing the feeling of the fire against his skin. He liked to imagine that the fire would make him pure, cleansing him, burning away his sins.

He did not hear the knocking on his door, not the creak of it opening.

He did hear, however, hear her familiar voice calling his name, her footsteps light on the stone.

Jon opened his eyes and turned towards her voice, staring as she walked closer to him, the light of the fire gently flickering on her form; dancing on her skin, her hair.

Jon wondered if perhaps he was more Targaryen then he realized.


End file.
